Breathe
by shenshen1977
Summary: Natasha and Clint have been partners for less than a year, yet something is building between them neither wants to acknowledge. Then a plane crash forces them to face their fears. Will help arrive in time?
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **"Breathe" (1/4)  
**Fandom:** The Avengers  
**Pairing:** Clint/Natasha  
**Characters:** Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff  
**Rating:** Mature (cautiously)  
**Warnings:** language, blood, injuries  
Written for the b_c Valentine's Day Minin Promptathon for a prompt by by crazy4orcas - Clint and Natasha. Valentine's Day. Rockie Mountains. Blizzard conditions. Plane crash. SHIELD is forced to call off the search and rescue.  
**Summary:** Natasha and Clint have been partners for less than a year, yet something is building between them neither wants to acknowledge. Then a plane crash forces them to face their fears. Will help arrive in time?  
**Disclaimer:** I own nothing but the story, though I would appreciate a Clint of my own, thank you :)  
**Author's notes: **All the cookies in the world to my wonderful betas alphaflyer and anuna_81! Ladies, you are wonderful and helped me tremendously in stretching my writing muscles, I can't thank you enough! And a shout-out goes to hufflepuffsneak, who was an awesome cheerleader :D

Feedback is love, so please share your thoughts with me 3

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**Breathe**

A groan coming from her left was the first thing Natasha registered as she regained consciousness. One second there was nothing but blackness, the next she was wide awake, a splitting headache thrumming along to the beat of her heart. She opened her eyes and took a deep breath as she assessed her surroundings. Or at least she tried to take a deep breath until a sudden sharp pain in her ribcage made her pause and expel all air from her lungs. _Wonderful_. Those ribs were at least cracked. She settled on taking shallower breaths and looked around herself.

Mangled pieces of carbon fiber, metal and glass were all around her; she was in the remains of the Quinjet. It hit her like a ton of bricks: the blizzard that had come out of nowhere, her frantic mayday call to the helicarrier, Clint's desperate struggles to keep the damn thing airborne. He'd at least managed to control their descent until they'd almost made a safe landing when the wind had taken control of their craft and slammed it into the ground.

_Clint_. Already fighting with the clasps on her flight harness, she turned to her left, looking for him in the twilight of the destroyed cockpit. Her eyes settled on him, slumped over in the pilot's seat, her stomach clenching in a tight fist of apprehension.

"Clint," she called out, getting the first buckle to release, immediately starting on the next.

She could see him move now, small movements accompanied by more muffled moans. He was alive at least. Why wouldn't the damn clasp open, damn it! She let out a yell of frustration before she went for the knife strapped to her thigh, making short work of the remaining straps. Stupid. Should have thought of that sooner. Clearly, the headache was interfering with her thought processes.

Once free, she got up and immediately winced as pain pulsed through her left leg, emanating from her knee. Bruised bone, must have slammed it on the dash, how fucking marvelous. There'd probably soon be a nice contusion to go with it too, but that was yet forming under her pants. Sucking in a few shallow breaths of air, she bit down the pain and picked a way through the debris to her partner.

"Clint?" she said again as she put a hand on his shoulder.

She felt a tremor run through him at her touch and he drew in a gasping breath. He moaned again as she cupped his face in her hands and lifted his head, her thumbs gently stroking his cheeks. _Please be okay._

A trickle of blood made its way slowly from a gash in his hairline as his eyes blinked open and his face scrunched up in confusion and pain.

"Clint?" _Please be okay._

"Tasha?" he whispered. "What - ?" he trailed off as he was wracked by a coughing fit that ended in yet another groan.

He sluggishly wrapped his arms around his abdomen, "Fuck, tha' hurts!"

"What, what hurts?" Natasha's eyebrows kneaded together as she tried to assess his injuries. He hadn't been strapped in when the blizzard hit and then there'd been no time for him to do so._ Be okay, dammit!_

"Everything?" he tried to make light of it, but failed.

There was a slightly hysterical edge to his voice, tears springing up in his eyes and rolling over Natasha's hands. All color drained from his face.

His behavior alarmed Natasha, her concern for him growing. On their first meeting she'd shot him; it was only a flesh wound to the leg, but she knew it must have hurt. He'd barely even limped as he'd proposed a new start for her with SHIELD. And now - tears?

"Need t' lie down, help please?" He ground out, the pain apparently stronger than his usual stoicism.

Her own pain forgotten, she took another look around the place. Debris littered the whole cockpit area; there was nowhere to settle him down safely.

Catching his cloudy gaze, she asked, "Can you hang tight for a second? I'll need to find a place to set you down, okay? I've no idea how bad the damage is. Can you do that?"

He nodded, groaning, "Jus' hurry, will ya?"

She picked her way through the debris to the cargo hold, wincing as she put weight on her bruised knee. Luckily, the damage appeared to be minor and Natasha could clear a spot without too much trouble. Every move hurt, but Clint seemed far worse off. She quickly checked the holds and breathed out a sigh of relief upon finding a surprisingly large amount of blankets, a field med kit, a flashlight and bottled water.

She deftly arranged some of the blankets into a makeshift pallet on the floor of the hold, set the rest of her haul close by and picked her way back to her partner. Getting him from the cockpit to the hold was a feat of will for both of them. He was heavier than he looked and she had to take most of his weight as he stumbled along beside her. He barely managed the few steps it took, guarding his left side, limping heavily.

She carefully helped him to the floor, her ribs and knee protesting at the abuse, but watching him helpless like that hurt even more. Damned man. Why was his pain affecting her like this? She pushed the thought down immediately; she needed to concentrate on helping him.

He was shaking like a leaf and white as a ghost by the time he was settled and horizontal, curled up on his right side. He was spent from the short trip, panting heavily, his eyes shut. His face looked a mess, the left side already swelling up, blood smeared all over. Sitting in front of him, she pulled the med kit closer and carded her hand through his sweaty hair, comforting herself as much as him.

"I have to check you over, okay? You have to tell me where you're hurt, alright?"

He nodded, teeth clenched, a defiant look on his face.

"Head?"

"Hurts."

"Dizzy? How's the vision?"

"Yeah. Blurry."

A concussion, then. She put it on her mental list.

"We have to get those clothes off if I'm going to see anything."

His eyes flew open, fear showing for a split second at the thought of moving, the pain taking away his usual mask of unconcern. She gently stroked his arm as she got her knife from its holster.

"I'll cut them off, okay?"

His muscles relaxed a tiny bit as he nodded marginally and she set to work.

The shirt fell away, revealing a brutal array of forming bruises in all shades of red on his chest and abdomen, most of them around the lower left side of his ribcage. Placing her hands on his left shoulder, she ran her fingers down his strong, sinewy arms, keeping her eyes on his face.

He flinched when her hands came to his wrist, she bent it and he grimaced.

"Sprained," he rasped out.

She nodded and repeated her examination on his right arm; everything seemed fine here, only some scrapes on his knuckles.

She gently placed her hands on his chest, stroking lightly over his smooth skin, checking for movement in the bones underneath. His chest was covered in a light sheen of cold sweat, his skin getting warmer the closer she got to the discolored area.

She felt movement underneath her nimble fingers as she lightly brushed over the deepest bruises. Those ribs were definitely broken; she could feel the displaced ends of the bones grinding against each other minutely. He went rigid under her careful examination, sucking in a wobbly breath.

His abdomen was slightly warmer where the bruising was worst; he was guarding his left side and stifled a gasp when she gently pressed down. His hand moved out and clamped around her right wrist with more force than she'd thought he still possessed.

"Stop," he rasped out, looking at her pleadingly, "Please."

She cautiously extricated her wrist from his death grip and cupped his cheek again, stroking it lightly with her thumb.

"It's okay, I'm done here. But I still need to check your legs."

She could hear him gulp in the absolute stillness of the downed craft and felt his jaw clamp tightly under her hand.

"Okay?"

He nodded and she cut off his pants, revealing his legs. A cursory glance showed lots of bruising again, but at least there were no bones sticking out at weird angles or open wounds. He twitched when her hands pressed around his left thigh.

"Bruise," he panted out and she nodded in assent, moving to examine his other leg, which seemed mostly unharmed.

A concussion and broken ribs, that wouldn't be too bad. Not after plummeting from the sky in a freak snowstorm. And since she had no way to assess internal damage, she hoped for the best and forced herself to swallow her residual fears as she looked him in the eyes and bundled him up in the remaining blankets.

"'s the verdict, doc?" he panted out, sucking in shallow breaths.

"You'll live, I guess."

"If SHIELD finds us in time, you mean," he replied, calling her bluff.

"Well, I am no doctor, so it wouldn't hurt if they got here sooner rather than later, yes."

She couldn't quiet the niggling voice in the back of her head that told her that they couldn't have gotten off this easy. She owed him that much honesty and the way her, well, _their_ luck ran, she was pretty sure that her assessment was correct. It was only a matter of time until the other shoe dropped. But she would do everything in her power to keep him comfortable and alive for as long as she could. And longer still, because just thinking about not having him around – no, she couldn't let herself go there. Not yet.

"Guess I'm screwed then."

"Don't talk like that. We're too valuable to SHIELD for them to just give up on us."

She really hoped that it was true, for his sake. And… her own.

"I've found some water. Do you think you can drink some without throwing up?"

She was concerned about the concussion, the broken ribs surely exacerbating any queasiness from the blow to his head.

"Not sure, but I'll try."

She'd held the bottle for him as he took a tentative sip and then another. He begged off and Natasha could see his throat working furiously on keeping the water down. It was of no use; seconds later he retched up the water he'd just drunk. He groaned, his face scrunching up in pain as his abdominal muscles contracted, aggravating his injuries, a litany of _Fuck_ falling from his lips as he tried to curl in on himself.

Natasha's stomach clenched as she caught sight of what ran down his chin. The water was tinged red.

_Oh, shit._


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you to everyone who reviewed, favorited and alerted! And again a big thank you to my fabulous betas, alphaflyer and anuna, for making this story so much better. And a big thank you as well to hufflepuffsneak for word-warring with me and cheering me on, you guys are awesome!

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**Breathe - Chapter 2**

Clint was in a world of pain. Fine tremors shook his muscles, leaving him feeling feverish and exhausted. Every nerve seemed to thrum with overstimulation, bursts of red and white blossomed behind his closed eyes with each pounding beat of his heart. The muscle spasms from throwing up had knocked the breath right out of him and he curled up, trying to relieve some of the tension.

It was part of his training as an archer, controlling his breathing, his heart rate, to help him focus. But it was hard to do it this time; he couldn't concentrate and it became more and more difficult to catch his breath. He felt panic rising in him – but suddenly there was a smooth hand at the nape of his neck, cool fingers scratching gently through his short hair. Goosebumps rose on his clammy skin.

Next thing he knew, his partner's arms cautiously wrapped around his shoulders. She eased him on his back before lifting his shoulders and propping his back against her soft chest, his head resting on her collarbone. He gasped at the change of position and although she'd been very gentle, his side exploded in a new wave of pain, cold sweat once more breaking out all over his body. He clawed at the arm resting lightly across his chest until she took his hand in hers and held on tight. Her other hand was cool on his brow, stroking his hair, her breath warm against his neck.

"Sorry, I'm so sorry. I don't want to hurt you, but you have to breathe. Breathe, Clint."

Her thighs firm alongside his own, steadying him, she gently rocked back and forth in time with the rising and falling of her own chest. She took elaborately deep breaths and kept up a litany of _deep breaths, just breathe_ until he could feel his cramped chest muscles relax and blessed air flowing back into his lungs. But fuck, breathing deeply hurt like hell.

The rocking behind him ceased as the haze around his brain dissipated slowly, and his heart rate and breathing normalized somewhat. She breathed steadily and he breathed along, the fabric of her shirt smooth against his skin. She ceaselessly whispered reassurances, his hand held tightly in hers, her thumb rubbing soothing circles on his palm, her other stroking his cheek.

He'd always wondered how a gentle touch of her hands would feel. The scenario in his fantasy had been quite… different though. Certainly, it hadn't involved a plane crash nor a near-death experience. He groaned; every new breath hurt.

"Shhh, shallow breaths now. It'll be easier. That's it," her concerned voice was low and gentle.

A shiver ran down his spine, progressing into full-on shaking. He was cold and tired; fighting for breath had sapped his energy. The earlier tremors became more pronounced and his teeth started chattering. Natasha draped the blankets that had fallen down to his thighs when she had lifted him to her carefully around him again.

"I need to see to that gash on your head and bandage your hand. There's some morphine in the Field Aid kit. Do you want me to give you some? It should take the edge off the pain."

He thought about it for a second. The fact that he could think a bit more clearly made the decision easier. He was no fan of narcotics; they dulled his senses and he couldn't afford to be even more vulnerable than he already was. It would also make breathing harder than it already was; he knew that from past experiences. He shook his head minutely.

"Jus' need you," he rasped out.

Her breath faltered for a second; he could feel her go slightly rigid behind him. Had he just said that out loud? What if – but then her hand took up its soothing motion again and he could feel her cheek coming to rest on his head.

"Get some rest, okay? I'll keep watch."

He was wrapped up in the steady feel of her around him, her chest soft but supportive against his back, her palm against his face and he let go, blinking out like a light in a matter of seconds. He didn't even feel the sting of the alcohol wipe she used to clean the blood off his face.

A faint clanging roused him from his sleep, beating in time with the headache that had taken hold of him. He was lying on his right side, fuzzy fabric under his head. His right hip hurt and his arm was numb, a bandage was wrapped around his wrist. The left side of his face was throbbing and he made to stretch and turn on his back, like he always did after waking, when a stabbing pain in his left side made him groan out loudly, driving the air from his lungs.

The clanging stopped and he could hear light steps approaching. Her steps - he recognized them even through the haze of pain. _What was going on?_

"Shhh, it's okay," she said, and her body was suddenly warm against his back, her hand in his hair again.

"Slowly, shallow breaths, okay?" she whispered. "You know how to do this."

Always the soldier, he did as he was told and the fog lifted a bit. The jet, the blizzard, the crash - it all came back to him in an instant.

"Where've you been?" he asked, looking at her through half-lidded eyes.

"I tried to fix the radio, but I haven't managed it yet. I hope our transponder's still working, but there's no way to check. It would be nice if SHIELD knew where to search for us."

He nodded and swallowed hard against the dread coiling up in his stomach. He had to move, he couldn't stay in this position any longer. But he remembered how much it'd hurt the last time and the pain in his side had only gotten worse since then.

"Nat, need to move… on my back, side hurts."

"Let me help you."

Her left hand on his hip, her right on his shoulder, she gently supported him as he rolled onto his back. It wasn't as bad as he'd anticipated, but he couldn't suppress a whimper.

"Slowly, there you go. Breathe through it."

It was easier said than done, and every breath brought new pain. He couldn't figure out how to make himself more comfortable; hell, he would settle for bearable at this point. He tried to find something to hold on to. He'd always been good at focusing on a target and centering all his thoughts on that one point.

His eyes found hers, and the red of pain cleared away against the vibrant green of her eyes. She looked at him with concern, cupped his cheek and wiped at the tears he hadn't been aware he'd been shedding. He tried very hard to breathe normally again, but the pain was getting to be too much.

He heard a hum, soft and low; it turned into a melody. He couldn't make out any words, just managed to make out the language. She was singing to him in Russian, stroking his cheek, running her hand through his hair. He felt himself drift off, giving in to the abyss.

The next time he woke, it was more gradual. It was harder, as well. He'd thought they'd been someplace else and then realized that he'd dreamed of her. They'd been tangled together in a sea of grass and it felt like home. The grass was soft like her hair under his cheek, the sun above them warming him like one of her rare smiles.

He found himself staring at the dull grey ceiling of the downed quinjet instead. This time he knew immediately where he was. His side was throbbing and his every nerve seemed to tingle and thrum with pain. He felt like his head was filled with cotton. There was a small weight on his chest and he carefully looked around, trying to clear his blurry vision.

Natasha's hand rested on his chest and he followed the curve of her arm with his eyes. She was leaning on the hold, eyes closed, her chest rising and falling rhythmically. Her legs were stretched out in front of her and his head was propped up on her thigh. His slight movement roused her and her eyes found his.

"You're awake," she said, her hand gently stroking along his shoulder as she stretched and yawned.

He thought he could see her face scrunch up in discomfort at the movement, but the grimace was gone too quickly and his vision was so blurry, he couldn't be sure.

"Y' okay?" he asked, the words almost caught in his dry throat.

"I'm fine," she said and he knew she was lying when she used the tone she always reserved for marks.

"Liar," he called her bluff, swallowing hard to wet his throat.

"I'll be fine. Bruises, mainly." This sounded more genuine, but he was still concerned.

It wasn't the whole truth, he was sure of it, but he lacked the energy to call her out on it again. He blinked. He was so tired, everything hurt, but he couldn't take his eyes off of her.

She looked towards the craft's front, her face becoming pensive.

"I think the storm's abating."

"Good."

He took a deep breath and the cool air suddenly hit his lungs and he coughed. His chest and abdomen erupted in agony; he couldn't catch his breath, his vision narrowing.

"Fuck," she muttered. "Breathe, Clint."

He tried, he really did, but the pain was overwhelming him fast and he looked at her pleadingly, asking for help the only way he could.

"What do you want me to do?" Her voice was alarmed, "Morphine, do you want me to give you the morphine now?"

He could only nod weakly as he tried to breathe. He almost didn't feel the prick of the hypodermic as Natasha injected him with the strong painkiller. What he did feel was the blessed relief it brought a few moments later, dulling the pain to bearable levels. Her hands were gently combing through his hair now, helping him to focus on taking shallow breaths again.

"I'm so sorry, I should have insisted earlier. I knew you needed it..."

He wasn't sure but there seemed to be a hitch in her voice.

He opened his heavy eyes, trying and failing to really bring her into focus. The morphine was taking full effect now. He felt warmth spread through him, blackness encroaching, the promise of oblivion. He had to let her know, just in case…

"'S okay, did good, was what I wanted. Love you."

Her hands stilling in his hair were the last thing he felt before darkness took him.


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks again to everyone who reviewed, favorited or alerted either this story or me, you all make me very happy. A special thankyou to the anonymous reviewers who I couldn't thank personally. All the cookies in the world to my wonderful betas alphaflyer and anuna_81! Ladies, I can't thank you enough! And a shout-out goes to hufflepuffsneak, who was an awesome cheerleader :D

Feedback is love, and this bar is all about spreading the love, so please share your thoughts with me

**Breathe (3/4)**

Natasha was sitting on the floor of the downed Quinjet, her hands buried in Clint's hair, cradling his back to her chest. Seeing him panic when he couldn't catch his breath had scared her more than she was willing to admit. He was her rock, stoic and unmoving once he took a position at her six. The thought transported her mind back to her beginning at SHIELD, which would never have happened if not for him and his stubborn belief in her. But the first year had been hard – all training and psych evaluations, and she had wondered if their purpose was to push her into insanity.

(Her mind was tougher now. She could do it, she could fit in. The earnestness behind her effort was new, and the irony wasn't lost on her. How was she, a spy of spies, supposed to make them believe she wasn't hiding anything?)

There had been one person, though. Hawkeye. They called him that because of his precision and she deemed it fitting. He never failed to find what he was looking for. At first she wondered what he was seeing, what had made him lower his weapon when she shot at him. The Hawk could see what other people couldn't; there was something that made him unafraid when her fellow trainees and senior agents avoided facing her on the sparring mat. Clint moved smoothly, seemingly effortlessly. There was frightening economy to his fighting and nothing was ever wasted. (If he fought her, then, possibly, probably, he was seeing something worthy of effort). He wasn't afraid, even if she was unpredictable in the way she fought, and the only way for him to win was to accept bruises in the process. He'd pin her down and she'd glance at him later; when he wasn't looking, she could find the traces she left on him and felt less alone in the world.

It was that thought that drove her to work on the radio, trying to get help for him. She hated leaving him alone, but he was still close by. She put him in the recovery position, on his side, one hand under his chin, the other at his back. She didn't know if his concussion might make him throw up again; he could choke if that happened if he was on his back.

She put all her mind into repairing the radio, trying to distract herself from her thoughts of Clint and from the pain of her own injuries. Her head was pounding and it was hard to focus on the wiring, trying to connect the right parts. She really gave it her all, but it proved to be beyond her level of skill. Her specialty was infiltration, not mechanics and it frustrated her to no end. Clint would have been better suited to work on the damned thing. He would not give up until he succeeded; she knew him well enough by now to know that. She felt like she failed him and slumped into the mangled co-pilot's seat, her ribs protesting at the change of position.

She heard his strangled gasp as he woke and couldn't get to him fast enough. Her knee wouldn't bend and it made negotiating the debris strewn across the floor really hard. Sitting down behind him, she put a steadying hand on his shoulder, her other combing gently through his hair. She helped him turn on his back when he asked her, ignoring the twinge in her ribs as she bent down to him. She thought about pushing the morphine again. But she knew he wouldn't have accepted the painkiller.

On their second mission together, when she'd sewn up a gash on his arm where he'd been clipped by a bullet, he'd told her about his father. He didn't trust his genes when it came to narcotics of any kind. He didn't like how they clouded his mind, his senses, everything he relied on to stay alive. So to distract him (and herself as well), she sang to him. She felt the moment he gave up the fight for consciousness and let go, dread and relief warring within her.

Scooting to the side, she leaned her back against the hold and placed his head in her lap. She kept stroking his hair, the feeling of the soft strands beneath her fingers calmed her. So much so that she gave into her own exhaustion and didn't fight the pull of sleep any longer.

She woke to pain when she felt his head move on her thigh, his steel-blue eyes boring into hers, trying to focus. She shivered as the cold seeped into her from all sides, heightening the discomfort caused by her cracked ribs. Her head was throbbing in time with her heartbeat and her knee had stiffened further during her short nap, making moving it painful and almost impossible. She cursed as she realized that this was it; there was nothing else she could do to get them out of this situation.

Her breath hitched, fogging in front of her as she tried to rein in her emotions. She could almost picture the incredulous faces of her colleagues at her admission of feelings. She knew they thought of her as cold and distant, emotionless. Only the Hawk with his uncanny eyesight and intuition had been able to see through her masks from the beginning. That realization had been scary, yet somehow liberating.

Even almost delirious with pain he only had to take one look at her to call her bullshit when she tried to downplay her own injuries. She didn't want him worrying about her, he had to conserve his energy to stay alive. Seeing him once more choking almost did her in and she was glad when he accepted the morphine this time. She felt relieved when his tightly wound muscles relaxed as it took effect. And then he said it.

_Love you_.

It kept replaying in her mind, over and over. She never had a friend like him before; well, she'd never had a true friend before at all. The length she'd go to in order to save this man was scaring her. But whatever needed to be done, she would do it, for him. She took off the holster holding her Glock, putting the gun within easy reach. Goosebumps rose on her arms and her teeth started chattering. She had to stay warm herself if she wanted to help him in any way.

Weighing her options, which were limited to say the least, she made her decision and gently lifted Clint's head from her legs and placed it on the blanket. She'd already piled every damn fleece she could find on top of him and she could still feel him shiver. Then she undid her boots and under loud cursing stripped off her clothes, keeping only her underwear and socks, revealing dark red bruises on her chest and knee in the process. Shivering, she wrapped the topmost blanket around her shoulders. Then she carefully maneuvered his lax form into her arms, cradling his bare back to her chest as she scooted back to rest against the jet's hull. She quickly pulled the blankets close and let her head sink down to rest on top of his, soft hair tickling her chin and nose as she breathed in his scent - men's shampoo, sweat and blood. It was oddly familiar and surprisingly soothing.

She carded her hands through his hair as he quietly whimpered in his sleep, trying to curl in on himself.

"Shhh, I'm sorry, I know it hurts. It's alright, you'll be fine. We're gonna get out of here. The storm's already dying down, see?"

She knew his mind wasn't with her, but he settled down at the sound of her voice. Good, that was good. She breathed a sigh of relief. His breathing evened out as he fell asleep again, yet it remained shallow and labored.

Her whole world had narrowed down to the unmoving man in her embrace. She ran her hands along his cool arms, the muscles missing their tone in sleep, yet she could still find the strength within. The beat of his pulse was too fast and too shallow in the prominent veins beneath her fingertips. Her arms slung loosely around his chest, she hugged him close to her. She'd wondered for a long time what he would feel like if she touched him like this, gently, tenderly, and the longing to do so had surprised her.

Her breath hitched, intensifying the pain in her ribs at the realization that this might be the only time it happened. She threaded her fingers through his and lowered her head to his again. His scent was so familiar from all the time they'd spent together, but it had never been like this, so intimate. She lifted their entwined hands to his chest, her fingers halting at the bruise on his ribcage. The area was hot underneath her cool hands, warmer still than the rest of his body. Fear for him snaked up her spine, tightening her throat.

He'd been her constant during training, his easy confidence and dry humor making things bearable when her fellow agents were giving her the cold shoulder. He'd never doubted her, had always pushed her to find herself, to find something that made her happy.

And all the while the one thing that made her happy had been him.

The realization took her breath away. She couldn't lose him, he was her best friend and she loved him. The thought should have scared her, but it didn't. It was the truth and she was done lying to herself, denying these feelings.

She wanted the easy banter, his smart mouth and even smarter mind, having her back in all situations. And she wanted this, their bodies wrapped around each other, not knowing where one ended and the other began. But he was slipping away from her and she was powerless to do anything about it. She'd felt his breathing become more and more shallow with every hour that passed, cold sweat covering his whole body, making him stick to her. She took a shaky breath, the pain in her chest flaring, setting off the throbbing in her head.

"What am I supposed to do, Clint? Please don't leave me," she whispered. "I love you."

And with those words she started to cry, her breaths turning into hitching sobs. Each brought new pain, but she couldn't stop, her vision turning white around the edges. She gulped in air, willing herself to calm down, but it wasn't working. The white at the edge of her vision turned into grey with every labored breath she took. She clutched him tightly to her, trying to ground herself.

Suddenly, a loud bang shook the downed craft. Her heart hammering, she reached for her gun instinctively, leveling the barrel at the hole where the hatch had been. If it was shaking a bit, and if the fierce scowl on her face was more pained determination than intimidation, it didn't matter.

Whoever came through the hole had better be a friendly.


	4. Chapter 4

Alright you guys, this is it! Final chapter :) Thank you all who reviewed and favorited, especially the anons who I couldn't thank personally. It has been a pleasure and I treasured every word you all decided to drop me. Writing fanfic is all about interaction, so to get a note from a reader telling you that he loved what you did is wonderful. Even better are those that tell you what they loved especially :) But just know that I love them all and hope you'll leave me a little comment again now that this story is done.

Thank you again to my wonderful betas alphaflyer and anuna, you were absolutely priceless and I love you!

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Natasha was shaking with the sudden adrenaline surge, her heart hammering, driving away the fog that had started to settle over her vision. Her Glock seemed to weigh a ton, yet she did her best to keep it leveled at the hole in the ship's hull.

"Romanoff, Barton, are you okay? We're coming in now," the cautious voice of Phil Coulson called out.

A figure appeared against the faint light coming in from outside; Natasha didn't lower her gun until she could identify Coulson herself. Seeing his concerned features coming closer, his eyes switching between her face and Clint's, she felt a sudden relief. Her hand sank down beside her, the gun falling from her suddenly lax grip.

"Help him, please."

Coulson lengthened his stride and was by her side in a heartbeat, his hand warm on her bare shoulder, his other hand going for Clint's carotid, checking the pulse.

He turned towards the agents entering the craft behind him. "Get the medics in here now. Hurry!"

The adrenaline leaving her in a rush, Natasha felt like a deflating two-thousand-pound balloon, weightless and immensely heavy at the same time. Coulson was here, he would make sure Clint would be alright. Her eyes blinked closed, the lids suddenly too heavy for her to lift. Someone carefully removed Clint from her embrace and she moaned at the sense of loss, but too spent to do anything about it. She had done what she could for him, now it was literally out of her hands.

"Natasha, are you okay? Natasha," she heard Coulson call out to her as she slipped into unconsciousness.

She was lying on something warm and soft, the ground beneath her gently shaking. She could hear voices in the distance. They seemed agitated and her stomach knotted with sudden desperation to know what was happening. She fought against the lead weights that seemed to be attached to her eyelids.

Prying them open, her eyes fell on the dull gunmetal grey ceiling of the Quinjet. Oh no, not _the_ Quinjet. She couldn't still be here. _Clint_.

"Clint," she breathed out, finding that she couldn't turn; she was held in place by something. Suddenly a head appeared in front of her. It wasn't Clint, but a welcome sight nevertheless. Coulson.

"Natasha, calm down. We're transporting you and Clint to the Helicarrier for medical treatment. You're on a stretcher, secured for the flight. You're safe, no need to fight," he explained calmly. Natasha nodded, relaxing minutely despite the tiny black dots that danced in front of her eyes at the motion.

"How's Clint?"

She saw a shadow race across his face, almost too fast to notice before his blank civil servant mask was firmly back in place.

"The medics are not happy; he's mildly hypothermic, just like you. His blood pressure is too low, same as his oxygen levels. They said something about diminished breathing sounds on the left side, which coupled with the broken ribs and the bruise seems to indicate internal bleeding. They're giving him a blood transfusion and oxygen."

Natasha's heart skipped a beat, having her fears for Clint confirmed. Her own ribs ached when she pulled in a deeper breath at hearing this. He had to be okay, he _had_ to.

"Coulson, they should know that I gave him some morphine on his request about a half hour before you arrived."

"He asked for it?" Coulson looked at her concernedly. Natasha nodded, her face screwing up in a grimace as her headache flared. She felt suddenly nauseous, the tiny movements of the aircraft, her headache and the information she's just received about Clint converging on her, making her sick.

She blanched and swallowed audibly. Coulson, reading the signs, reacted immediately, alerting one of the medics who'd been monitoring Natasha that his charge was about to throw up. The head of her gurney was lifted and a dish was shoved under her chin just in time to catch the contents of her stomach.

"Did you hit your head, Agent Romanoff?" the medic asked her.

She nodded in the affirmative. "I've had worse," she replied as the pilot announced that they were a minute out and that a medical team was standing by.

And then the alarms on the monitors attached to Clint began blaring. The medics began calling out readings to each other, medications they were administering while Coulson's fingers dug into Natasha's shoulder almost painfully. The second the Quinjet touched down, the hatch was lowered and the medics were rushing Clint off to the waiting medical team, alarms still blaring.

Natasha began fighting against the straps that had secured her for the duration of the flight, her ribs and knee protesting painfully at her movement. She groaned, turning determined eyes to Coulson.

"Get me out of here, I have to go with him." When he didn't immediately release the straps holding her, she added, "Please."

She didn't care that she only wore her underwear; she would have run after Clint naked at that point. She had to know how he was.

Sparing Coulson the decision, the medics who'd treated her wheeled Natasha off to Medical. She had to close her eyes as they rushed her down the corridors; the movement was making her dizzy. Their journey ended in a cubicle in the med bay, where a horde of doctors and nurses descended on her. The straps were removed and before the medical personnel could transfer her to the exam table, she had leapt off the gurney, determined to find Clint. But she hadn't taken her leg or her concussion into account. The second she was upright her leg gave way and her vision went black as she passed out.

Natasha fought her way through the fog shrouding her mind. She felt weightless and nothing hurt. Which, coupled with the steady beeping, antiseptic smell and the slightly scratchy sheets below her gave her an idea of where she was - hospital or med bay. Slowly opening her eyes, she saw greyish walls, no daylight; med bay it was, then.

"You're awake," she heard Coulson's voice a second before her eyes fell on him. He'd lost his immaculate look, his tie was gone, his suit jacket as well, his shirt was rumpled. His short hair looked like he had run his hand through it repeatedly. A nagging feeling of foreboding managed to make its way through the cloud left by the painkillers she was obviously on.

"Clint," she coughed, her throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper, but she had to know. "How is Clint?"

Coulson handed her a cup with water and she took a tentative sip, not letting him out of her sight. He swallowed visibly before answering her.

"He's still in surgery. He's bleeding internally; they're trying to fix it. I don't know anything else, only that he is still alive and fighting."

"How long?" her voice was steadier now, even though she felt anything but.

"Three hours and twenty-seven minutes since they took him in."

Natasha felt the blood drain from her face and her fingers went numb. That was long. _Too long._ The bank of monitors behind her betrayed her anxiety to Coulson who, rather uncharacteristically, began to talk up a storm.

"I think we need to find a new call-sign for him. He's more like a cat, with his reflexes and I'm sure he has nine lives. I mean you couldn't take him out when he was supposed to apprehend you. Now he had you on his side. It'll take more than a fucking blizzard to clip the Hawk's wings. Do you remember that time in…" he kept on talking and his steady, even tone made Natasha relax minutely despite herself. Her stomach remained a tight knot of worry, but she regained the feeling in her fingers.

The monitors returned to a more regular beeping as she realized what it was that made her calm down. She trusted Coulson, with her life and Clint's. He had come to search for them himself, and he hadn't left her alone now. And for that she was extremely grateful. Warmth spread through her and she smiled a small smile.

"Thank you, Phil," she said and watched him look at her with big eyes.

"You've never called me that, no matter how many times I've offered."

"You've never rescued me from a downed Quinjet before. Thank you for being here. For staying with me."

"Where else would I be? Someone had to make sure you don't hurt the first nurse that dares to poke her nose in here." He smiled that sardonic little smile she had grown to like. Just like Clint's boisterous laughs when he was in the mood, Phil's smiles had come to mean something more to her. They made her feel like she belonged and that was something that she had never thought possible.

A knock on the door preceded a short, blonde, middle-aged woman wearing scrubs entering the room. Phil jumped up from his seat by her bedside and went to take the woman's outstretched hand.

"Agent Coulson, I'm Dr. Carla Whisman. I've been Agent Barton's surgeon. Agent Romanoff," she said as she first shook Phil's hand and then inclined her head to Natasha.

Natasha felt adrenaline surging through her as she focused all her remaining strength on the woman in front of her, trying to read her as she spoke.

"Agent Barton is being transferred to the ICU as we speak; the surgery went as well as we could have hoped for. As you know, he suffered from a blunt force injury to the thorax. It caused fractures to his ribs, fragments of which have damaged his spleen and his chest wall, causing massive internal bleeding and a collapsed lung. We've put in a chest tube to drain the accumulated blood from his chest. We were able to remove the bone fragments, repair the damage and reinflate his lung. However, the spleen was damaged beyond our help and had to be removed."

"But he can live without that, right?" Natasha asked, remembering her training. (Red Room had made sure that all its operatives knew exactly how they could cause the most damage)

"Yes, the liver will take over most of the functions. He will be more susceptible to infections in the future, though."

"So you're saying he's gonna be fine?" Phil chimed in.

"Barring any complications, yes. Unfortunately there's always a greater risk of infections with chest injuries. We have him on heavy antibiotics and pain medication at the moment in hopes to prevent any from setting in."

_Barring any complications, yes_. That was the last thing that really registered in Natasha's mind. The rush of relief was leaving her drained as her injuries caught up with her. He would be okay, there was no other possibility. Her eyes fell closed. Her Hawk was going to be okay.

_Her Hawk_. She opened her eyes again, finding that the doctor had left. Phil was still there, his hand on the rail of her bed.

"Get some rest, Natasha, I'll keep watch."

She heard a click from the IV pump on her other side. Seconds later, a wave of nothingness swept through her and her eyes closed of their own accord. She was out like a light within seconds.

Clint came to slowly. He felt like he'd been packed in cotton wool, his senses numbed. He tried moving his hands and feet but it was hard, his muscles unwilling to respond. His throat felt like he had swallowed sandpaper and he coughed. His eyes flew open as he thought he was being split open at the seams. His eyes darted around the room, recognizing greyish walls, bright fluorescent light – SHIELD medical. He groaned, eliciting another coughing fit. Jesus, what was this? His left side was throbbing with a dull, yet insistent pain.

Two nurses appeared in the entrance to his cubicle, eyes darting between the monitors surrounding him and Clint himself. One, a tall brunette, addressed him.

"Agent Barton, are you in any pain?"

He wanted to answer, but another cough prevented him from doing so. His eyes screwed shut, he tried to put pressure on the ache in his side, but his arms felt like they were made of lead. His muscles trembled but his limbs wouldn't move. He squirmed in discomfort. _Natasha, he needed Natasha._ She'd been able to take the pain away before.

"Tasha," he breathed out. "Need Tasha."

While the other nurse, shorter and dark-skinned, was taking readings of the monitors, the first nurse kept talking to him, but he couldn't make sense of the words. He kept on repeating his request for Natasha, he needed to know that she was okay. He dimly remembered that she'd been hurt as well; he had to know.

Then, over the voices of the nurses and the beeps and whooshes of the machinery surrounding him, he heard something new.

"Clint," her voice was low and strained, "oh Clint."

He opened his eyes and saw her limping towards him, clad in a pair of clean scrubs, Phil right behind her. And then she touched his hand and it was like a small current ran through his arm. He exhaled, causing another coughing fit and he tensed. Suddenly, her hand was over the injured area, putting gentle pressure on it and he didn't feel like every cough was ripping him apart anymore.

She held a cup in front of his face and placed a straw between his lips. "Drink, it'll help with your throat."

The relief was immediate, the need to cough diminished. Natasha was here. He couldn't take his eyes off of her.

"God, you're –" he coughed a little again. "You're pretty."

Her eyebrow shot up at his words. Had he really just said that out loud? He could hear Phil chuckle as he sent the nurses out now that their patient was calm and settling down. Then Phil was standing next to his bed, looking at him.

"You look like crap, Coulson," Clint said with a loopy grin. "What happened?"

"You happened. Don't do that again, okay?" Phil waited for Clint to nod before he turned and left, saying, "I need a nap."

Clint looked at Natasha and she was so pretty and he remembered how good it had felt to be held by her and he was cold and he hurt and he just wanted her close to him.

He shivered, saying, "I'm cold. Can you warm me up?"

Her eyebrow shot up even higher, but she smiled and lowered the guard rail on his right side. "Scoot over, birdbrain."

He did as she asked as best as he could, which was not much. She climbed onto the bed with him, snuggled into his right side and rested her hand on the site of his injury, keeping the gentle pressure that had felt so good when he'd had to cough.

Her hair was brushing his nose, and he remembered his dream from the wreck. "I wanna take you to Iowa… show you the fields."

He could hear amusement in her voice. "Where did that come from?"

He breathed in deeply, imagining the usual smell of her shampoo, strawberries and citrus.

"You always smell of fruit… your tiny pieces of fruit for breakfast… I love how you cut them. Neat freak."

She began to chuckle, twitching against his side.

He looked down along their bodies, his underneath the blanket, hers clad in scrubs and thick woolen socks so unlike her own covering her feet.

"You always… steal my socks… because yours have holes."

Her head lifted from where it had rested on his shoulder and he saw her grinning. He managed to give her a tired grin in return.

Her breath ghosted over his cheek and chills ran up his spine. She found his eyes with hers, looking at him intently.

"Clint, I think it's best if you just shut up and kiss me."

She kissed him and it was sweet. He tried to kiss back, but she did most of the work, kissing his lips, his jaw, anywhere she could reach. He yawned and drifted off into his favorite dream.

Natasha couldn't stop kissing him, reassuring herself that he was still with her. He'd been so cold the last time she held him and now he was warm beside her, her hand gently splayed over his injury. Last night faded into the past as she held him. He was here, he was alive, and they would get the chance to see where… this… would lead. For once in her life she didn't need a plan. She just needed the stubborn, bullheaded, lovable idiot next to her.

She breathed in his scent, still him despite all the antiseptic in the air. Wrapped around her Hawk, grounded by his steady breathing, she fell into an exhausted sleep.

Snow was gently falling outside the window; they were snuggled together underneath the down comforter on the bed in his apartment. Clint liked to think of it as their bed, even though it was technically his. She had however spent every single night with him, in this bed, after he had left the hospital. His arms were wrapped around Natasha's waist, pulling her close to him. She was soft against the planes of his body, her skin warm against his.

Three weeks ago they had barely survived a plane crash; then he had developed pneumonia as a result of his injuries. Because his fever had gotten so high that he had been delirious, he didn't remember most of that. But although he remembered only scraps of the crash and the recovery, he'd still prefer to forget even those.

But in everything he remembered, Natasha was constantly there, with a damp cloth on his forehead, cool hand on his cheek. He remembered bits of Russian, her voice singing something like a lullaby. He remembered tiny bits of oranges, passages of Tolstoi, a quiet backdrop against his dulled mind.

Being with her like this felt almost like a dream. His side still hurt. The stitches had been pulled last week, before he left the hospital, but his broken ribs were still healing, as were the incision sites and he tired easily. He slept more than he'd ever thought he could. And Nat was always there when he woke up.

She gently nudged his shoulder, pushing him onto his back before straddling his hips. She deepened their kiss, her hands cupping his face, sending chills down his spine. He would have loved to sink into her now, but cuddling was all he had strength for at the moment. His hands roamed the silky skin of her back before fisting in her hair, pulling her away gently to catch his breath. He got winded so fast and he felt like an old man without his stamina, but he'd win it back with time. He rested his brow against hers and she smiled brightly back at him.

"I love you," she said before she kissed him again with such enthusiasm that their teeth clicked together. They laughed; and he thought that it was probably his favorite sound in the world. He could never get enough of her laugh. Or her kisses. He tickled her as he kissed her lips, her chin, her neck, eliciting more laughter from her.

Together, they had found what they had both been looking for for the longest time.

Home.


End file.
